Found at the Bookstore: Found, #2

Chapter One

MID-NOVEMBER

Ryder

Ryder Garrett watched as Mac, his brother’s boyfriend, got down on one knee in front of the bookstore crowd and proposed to his brother, Tommy. Gasps sounded out from the crowd. Happiness...tinged with something a little sadder...tightened his throat. Mac was awesome for his brother. In the past year, he’d watched the two of them flourish in their love.

Ryder glared down at his wheelchair. This was not flourishing. The strength in his left side came and went, but lately, it seemed to be more absent than not. He was twenty-six years old and looking at another fifty to seventy years like this—miserable, trapped, alone...

He should be thrilled for Tommy’s happiness. Instead, he was making it all about himself. Shit, he was pathetic. No girl would ever want him as long as he was wallowing. Who had he become? Ryder Garrett did not wallow. He conquered. He charmed. He owned his own happiness despite life’s bumps and trials. He overcame. At least, that was what everyone thought who listened to him speak on his inspirational circuit.

That was the only thing that had kept him going the last eight years since a football accident and a traumatic brain injury sidelined his life. Inspiring others was his life work now. But his ever-cheerful outlook on life was waning, more and more, day by day.

The happy, congratulating group around his brother and fiancé was finally beginning to thin where Ryder could maneuver his wheelchair around the crowded bookstore. He headed toward the front where the two guys were all smiles.

Tommy met his gaze while he nodded and shook hands with the trio of men talking to him and Mac. Happiness literally glowed from him.

Ryder gave a small wave and signaled he would meet Tommy over at the coffee shop. Ryder detoured to that side of the store. But as he rolled up to the crowded, small cafe, he sighed. Never mind. He didn’t need coffee that bad.

With the crowds here to see his brother’s fiancé, Mac, a famous science fiction author, there was no way he’d get in there with his bulky wheelchair. His shoulders drooped.

But then a voice whispered across his ear, Salted caramel latte, right?

Stig. He hadn’t even seen Tommy and Mac’s friend here, but it made sense that he’d come tonight.

He turned to take in the friendly expression of one of Mac’s closest friends. Stig Minton was one of those guys. He had a personality bigger than life echoed by his shockingly bleach-blond hair and quick wit. He was always ready with a sarcastic or suggestive remark, but Ryder got the feeling there was a lot more behind that easy smile and attitude than Stig let on.

That would be great. Thanks. Ryder twisted his hips to grab his wallet and shoved his planner into the pocket on the side of his wheelchair. Here, let me give you some money.

Stig waved him off. No, don’t worry about it. I got it. Why don’t you go grab us that free table before someone else claims it? He gestured toward the empty table in the corner.

Ryder hadn’t seen the empty table off to the side with all the people standing around. He began rolling that direction when a hipster dude skirted around his wheelchair and slid into one of the empty chairs.

Just perfect. Ryder scowled at the jerk for a moment, but the guy ignored the force of his glare. And he couldn’t blame him. Seriously, it wasn’t like he could be intimidating when he was in his chair like this.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere else for him to go. There was simply no room to maneuver in here with the crowd. People repeatedly jostled his chair as they tried to slide around the bulky piece with mumbled apologies. Ryder gritted his teeth in annoyance as another person bumped him. He shouldn’t have come, no matter how much he wanted to be here for Tommy and Mac’s moment.

Ryder sucked in a breath as telltale spots began to encroach on his vision, a precursor to what was sure to be one hell of a migraine. He closed his eyes and rubbed, hoping that stress had made him imagine the tiny black dots. But nope, when he opened his eyes, they were still there, taking up even more of his vision. He had to get out of here before it hit him full force with all the fun of puking and the disappearance of his ability to think straight—or as straight as his mind ever worked anymore.

He frantically looked around for a familiar face, but he didn’t see anyone, so he began pushing his way toward the doors. He knocked into people as he went, but he was past the point of caring.

The pain finally slammed into him, swift and brutal, and he still hadn’t made it to the door. This had snuck up on him too quickly. He wasn’t prepared. He needed help. He fumbled for his phone, but along with the fog of pain came the inability to make his fingers hold his phone.

He dropped it, and someone walking past kicked it. It disappeared beneath a bookcase. He closed his eyes and swallowed back the nausea.

Shit.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Ryder, are you okay, a deep voice rumbled with concern.

He looked up into a stranger’s face. He should know this man, but with his head in the migraine fog, nothing connected.

Home. I need—he swallowed against his thick, dry tongue—to go home.

Okay. The gorgeous man with bleach-blond hair and dark, concerned eyes cupped his shoulder.

Ryder couldn’t get his brain to process any of this. He could see the guy’s worry but didn’t understand the reason for it.

Let me just find your brother, the man said.

No! Ryder didn’t know why it mattered. The pain in his head thrummed with a beat so loud it was hard to think, to process. He couldn’t quite access that part of his brain anymore, but something about today was important. He wouldn’t ruin it for Tommy...not again. Can text. Home. Please.

His ability to vocalize slipped further and further away from his grasp.

STIG

A clutch of panic slid into Stig’s gut as he glanced around the crowded bookstore looking for some help, a familiar face who might know Ryder better than him. He didn’t know much about the details of Ryder’s condition. Ryder looked more sick and pale by the second. He rubbed at his head, the pain clouding his eyes.

Last year, he’d hung out with Ryder’s brother, Tommy, for a few days while he and Mac had been working out their issues. They’d discussed Ryder then. At the time, Ryder had been living in a mental health facility after trying to commit suicide. Thank fuck he’d been unsuccessful.

All Stig knew was that Ryder had issues after a traumatic brain injury that happened during a football game in high school. Most times he used a wheelchair, but every once in a while, Stig had seen him with crutches or sometimes even a cane, so he knew his physical limitations came and went. While Ryder had seemed okay earlier, he was going downhill quickly.

As Ryder’s words began to slur and he appeared more confused, Stig wasn’t sure what to do. Let me go find Tommy.

No.

That word came out loud and clear. While it was obvious Ryder didn’t want to bother Tommy with this, Stig was so far out of his element that he was on a whole other chemistry table. Okay, I get it, but Ryder, I don’t know what to do. Do you need me to take you to the hospital?

No. Just home. He swallowed audibly, and his skin turned an even greener shade. Just need to go to bed. Migraine. Will sleep it off. Ryder closed his eyes with a wince and then whispered, Okay. It happens—he swallowed again—all the time.

Stig took a deep breath. Okay, he could do this. He took a final glance around the crowded bookstore. He still didn’t see Tommy or Mac, so he began pushing Ryder’s wheelchair toward the doors. Ryder’s head now rested in the palm of his right hand. His left hand shook in his lap, a testament to how much pain he was in.

Stig knew Ryder rarely drove, so he headed straight toward his low-slung Aston Martin parked around behind the bookstore where he’d been less likely to end up with a door ding. The autumn air was chilly, although still mild for November in Denver, Colorado.

They came to a stop beside the car. Ryder lifted his head, frowned, and looked around, his expression confused.

I’m sorry, I don’t know what your limitations are, Stig said. Can you get into the car, or do you need me to lift you?

Nice. Despite his pain, Ryder’s eyes widened with appreciation when he got a good look at the black sports car. Can do it—he took a deep breath—but might fall.

Stig opened the door and parked the chair where Ryder would have the shortest distance to shift his body and then locked the wheel brakes. Ryder shifted into the car, and Stig got a bit distracted as the bare, corded muscle on Ryder’s forearms flexed with the move. Ryder hadn’t taken the time to put on his jacket when they exited the bookstore.

Stig shook his head. He should have made him do it. He grabbed the jacket and book out of the chair and shoved them behind the seat. A whimper made him pause. He’d never paid much attention to Ryder before, but he was a beautiful man with his all-American dirty blond hair that fell artfully over his forehead. And those vibrant blue eyes...which dammit...were filled with pain. What was Stig doing?

Hello...Ryder was straight.

But in this moment, Stig could appreciate the play of masculine muscles on a really good-looking guy. A frisson of awareness flittered through his lower abdomen and caused him to pause with wonder at his reaction. Seriously?

He’d had sex just a couple of nights ago with a hot young twink. There was no reason his libido should be reacting this way now...and certainly not to Ryder. Stig shook his head as he shut the car door.

But after a few steps, he stumbled to a halt. Fuck. He’d forgotten about the wheelchair sitting outside the car. It wasn’t huge, but neither was the Aston Martin’s very limited trunk space. He stared at it for a moment before he thumbed open his phone contacts.

Minton Galleries, his PA, Lola Barnes, answered.

Lola, I need you to call me a taxi. Have it come to Gregory’s Books and tell them that there will be an extra hundred in it for them if they get here in the next ten minutes.

What happened to the Aston? Hell, Stig, you didn’t wreck it, did you?

No. He rolled his eyes as he glanced at Ryder through the window. His eyes were closed, and he appeared even paler than he had before. I don’t have time to explain. Just hurry. Hell, tell them I’ll make it an extra thousand dollars if they get here in five minutes. I’m around the backside of the store.

Okay, I’m on it.

Stig took a moment to pace after ending the call. He didn’t do well with not taking action. He still debated the wisdom of not calling Tommy to help, but he’d deal with that fallout later.

Fuck, he didn’t even know where Ryder lived. How did he plan to get him home? He opened the car door.

Ryder stirred when the cold November air hit his face. He squinted at Stig without a flicker of recognition in his glassy gaze.

A frisson of worry slid through Stig. This was dangerous. How often did Ryder get migraines like this? It would be way too easy for someone with fewer scruples to take advantage of him or hurt him.

Do you remember your address? Stig asked quietly.

Ryder frowned and then shook his head slightly. He groaned and gasped in pain.

Dammit. Okay, no more bothering Ryder with this. He would just have to figure it out. He’d seen Ryder reach for his wallet earlier, and he probably had some sort of ID. Stig reached over Ryder, who’d closed his eyes again.

Ryder stiffened slightly.

I’m not doing anything nefarious, Stig reassured him.

Big word, Ryder mumbled.

Stig smiled even though Ryder’s voice had sounded so weak. At least the guy was still here with him. He dipped his fingers into Ryder’s front jeans pocket. His fingers brushed over the wallet and then across something else that was most definitely not a wallet.

Ryder gasped.

Stig stilled and glanced up at Ryder’s face.

He watched Stig with wide, dark blue eyes.

Sorry, Stig mumbled and extracted the wallet, trying not to give into the impulse to bury his face in Ryder’s neck to inhale his tantalizing scent. It was something spicy mixed with evergreen and reminded him of his younger days, flying down insane double-black diamond ski runs, praying that wouldn’t be the day he became one with a tree. This scent triggered pure adrenaline and temptation. He wanted more.

I’m gonna—That was all Ryder got out as he lunged across Stig’s back and began retching.

Warm, vile-smelling, thick liquid spewed across Stig’s back and down his collar. He froze, and for a moment he was pretty sure that he was going to become one of those people who sympathy vomit as he held Ryder to keep him from falling.

Ryder collapsed in his arms, and his stomach stopped heaving. Stig gently lowered him back into the seat and slowly stood, peeling off his destroyed leather jacket at the same time. The yuck dripped off it.

Aw, man, that sucks.

Stig hadn’t realized the taxi had arrived in the middle of all that. The overweight, middle-aged taxi driver stood next to the cab, his lip curling at the stench rising off Stig. I’m assuming you’re my hire, but you can’t get into my taxi like that. I just got last night’s vomit out of my seats.

Lovely. Yes, I’m your hire, but I don’t need you to take me. I need you to take this. He gestured toward the wheelchair. He let the coat drop to the ground and opened Ryder’s wallet. Yep, he’d found an ID with an address. We’re headed to 1456 Michelin Drive, apartment number twenty-six, but just follow me, and I’ll get the chair from you in the parking lot.

Sounds good. The cab driver picked up the wheelchair, closed it like someone who did the move everyday and went around to the side of his minivan where the door slid open. You gonna grab that? the driver asked with a nod toward the soiled jacket on the ground.

Stig shook his head. He’d paid several thousand dollars for the leather jacket, but as far as he was concerned, it was trash now. No, you’re welcome to it if you want it.

Appreciate it. The missus has some solution that gets anything out. He reached inside his minivan and pulled out a trash bag. He gingerly picked up the ruined jacket and deposited it into the plastic bag.

That worked for Stig. He nodded at the trash bag. I don’t suppose you have another one of those...just in case he gets sick again.

Even better. I have actual barf bags. The driver reached into the van and pulled out a couple of plain white bags and handed them to Stig. They don’t always help, but you wouldn’t believe how many people barf in taxis.

Stig curled his lip. I can imagine. I appreciate it.

Ryder’s apartment was only ten minutes away. He’d had stayed quiet the entire time although he’d shifted a couple of times and winced in pain, so Stig was pretty sure the guy was still awake.

When he parked and turned off the car, Ryder opened his glazed eyes and looked around. Relief flooded his face. Good, that meant he recognized home.

Hang tight. Let me go get your wheelchair, and then we’ll get you inside and settled.

’K.

It took a bit of awkward maneuvering, but finally after paying fifteen hundred dollars to the taxi driver—totally worth the cost—he had Ryder parked in front of his apartment door.

Stig looked at the doorknob in confusion. He’d expected a key lock, but instead this looked like a card reader from a hotel room door. Ryder’s eyes were closed again, so Stig thumbed through the cards in Ryder’s wallet until he found one that might be the key. He slid it in and heard a distinctive click.

Hmm, that was interesting. Was the card access because of Ryder’s brain injury? Every time Stig had been around Ryder, he’d appeared perfectly normal besides the obvious wheelchair, but the more he dealt with him today, he could see that simply wasn’t the case.

He pushed Ryder’s wheelchair into the living room of the small apartment and almost stumbled to a halt. While the apartment was small, the décor was top-of-the-line from the dark, mahogany-stained bamboo wood floors to the red leather couches.

He looked around the apartment, stunned at the expertly executed use of color and light. The walls were painted stark-white to highlight piece after piece of gorgeous, fabulous art.

Ryder roused and began to roll away, headed down the hall. So blown away by the quality of the artwork on the walls, Stig had forgotten about Ryder.

Rushing after Ryder Stig tugged off his soiled clothes as he walked, not wanting to dirty up anything in the house with the grime. Across from the bedroom Ryder entered was a bathroom doorway. Stig diverted there and threw his clothes into the bathtub. He’d take care of them after he got Ryder situated.

Right now, Ryder was so out of it, Stig counted on him not noticing he’d stripped down to his very small briefs. Partial nudity had to be preferable to puke. Stig doubted Ryder was one of those straight guys who had issues with homophobia since Tommy was gay, and the brothers were close.

He shrugged. Well, he’d find out soon enough.

When he entered the bedroom, Ryder was trying unsuccessfully to lever himself from the wheelchair to the bed. Stig rushed over to help and was struck again by that tantalizing, outdoorsy scent. It overrode the sour smell that had invaded Stig’s senses.

Ryder collapsed on the pillows of the unmade bed, his eyes already shut.

I know you’re in pain, so you don’t care right now, but you will later. I’m going to pull off your boots and jeans, okay? Stig asked.

Yeah.

Ryder gave a half-hearted attempt to help, but Stig just batted his hands away. I got it. Believe me, I know how to get a guy out of his clothes just fine.

Ryder snorted out a surprising half-laugh. Stig glanced up.

Ryder smirked at him. I can’t believe you just said that. You know I’m straight, right?

Of course. Hey, you seem more with it. Do you know who I am?

Stig, Mac’s friend.

Good. I didn’t want you to be freaked out about a stranger in your house.

As Stig unbuttoned and tugged off Ryder’s jeans, his eyes had closed again.

Good, then Ry wouldn’t notice how Stig’s gaze lingered over that tantalizing, substantial bulge barely confined by his boxers. He’d never been a fan of boxers. He may just have to revise his stance on that issue.

Hard to be...intimidated by guy in...his underwear, Ryder mumbled, his voice strained with pain and a bit muffled with the oncoming sleep.

Stig glanced up at Ryder’s face, expecting to find he’d been caught, checking Ry out, but his eyes were still closed, his face screwed up in a grimace of pain.

Hey, Ry, do you have any medicine you can take that will help? Stig asked quietly.

Yeah...kitchen. Above sink. Red.

Stig made his way into the kitchen, found the pills with the red top and read the instruction. Take one every six to eight hours as needed. Only one? Wow, they must be pretty potent. He found a glass and filled it with water. Then he quietly slipped back into Ryder’s room.

If Ryder’s face hadn’t reflected his stark pain, he would have let Ryder be since it looked like he’d fallen asleep. But even in sleep, he looked too miserable.

Stig gently grabbed his shoulder. Hey, Ry, I have some medicine for you.

Slowly, Ryder’s eyes fluttered open. Wha...what? He struggled to sit up.

Stig sat on the edge of the bed and propped him up from behind and held the glass and pill in front him. This should help.

Thank fuck. Ryder’s hands were shaking as he took the items.

Stig wanted to hold the guy tighter, protect him somehow. How he thought he could do anything to help, he had no idea? But he took the cup from Ryder and set it on the nightstand. When it appeared that Ryder wasn’t in a hurry to kick him out of bed, he didn’t move.

It probably wasn’t normal, but for Stig, the best thing about having a boyfriend was having someone to snuggle with when he felt like crap. Something about that human connection always made him feel better. As Ryder clung to him, it seemed like he might be the same way. There was nothing sexual about it. Just simply solace from human touch.

Stig leaned back against the headboard and threaded his fingers through Ryder’s thick, soft blond hair, lightly massaging his head. It could have been his imagination, but it seemed like Ryder’s muscles relaxed a bit. But that could also be the medicine hitting his system, too.

Chapter Two

STIG

It was fully dark when Stig awoke with an asleep Ryder plastered to his chest, his face sweating against Stig’s bare chest. Unfortunately, Stig’s bladder insisted he get up, although he didn’t want to leave this little interlude. He gently slid from beneath Ryder.

Ryder mumbled unhappily, but he didn’t wake up. Once Stig stood, he looked down at Ryder. He lay partially on his stomach. He still had on the T-shirt he’d been wearing earlier in the day, but it had rucked up his chest, revealing the tease of muscular lats on his sides that had Stig drooling. He’d like to explore Ryder more. With his tongue.

Stig took a step back as if removing himself from the tempting sphere of the straight boy would fix this insane low-level arousal and lust.  He’d never had this issue before with a straight guy. Straight guys were off-limits, and the few who were open for a bit of experimentation weren’t worth the drama and angst. He wasn’t one of those guys who got his kicks by trying to tempt a hot, straight guy. He shook his head and went in search of his clothes and the phone that was still in a pocket. He also needed to see what he could do to salvage the soiled clothes.

Then after he was sure Ryder was okay, he’d go out and get laid.

ONCE STIG WAS SHOWERED and smelling way too much like Ryder’s tantalizing scent, he was stuck with nothing to do for at least another hour while his clothes finished in the dryer. So he began to snoop.

First order of business was checking out the intriguing art. The main medium was photography and the artist had a fantastic eye and unusual technique in capturing landscapes featuring really unique perspectives and lighting. Those alone were gallery-worthy.

But then the artist had taken the art one step further. Beside each canvas featuring a full-color photograph was another piece using that same photograph. But in that second canvas, all the color and shadows had been removed from the original photo to leave a stark black and white outline, and then it had been printed and painted over. If the original photo hadn’t been featured beside it, then Stig would have never recognized that’s what the artist had done.

While the photos signaled an incredibly talented photographer, the painted versions were fantastic and showed an incredible versatility and talent. The artist had used both watercolors and some other thick medium that Stig couldn’t quite place. He peered closer. The texture and thickness made it look like oil paints, but he didn’t think that’s what the artist had used. What an intriguing mystery.

The walls were covered with the pieces, but not a single one had a signature on it. Stig desperately wanted to feature this artist in one of his galleries. This was the kind of avant-garde style that had made Minton galleries famous worldwide.

All the pieces were fantastic, but Stig kept coming back to one in the hall across from Ryder’s bedroom. The photograph was of what appeared to be an empty footbridge with some sort of festival in the background. In the photograph version, the eye was drawn to the colorful tents and faces among the crowds of the festival. But in the painted version, those figures had been left stark, washed-out in black and white, and the eye was drawn to the lone figure on the bridge. In the first photo, the person was easy to overlook. He was in a wheelchair, and his dark clothes and stature lower to the ground meant he blended right in to the architecture of the bridge. In the painting, stark realization hit the viewer at just how alone that person was...with the crowds of people only feet away.

Emotion clogged Stig’s throat. He used to have this kind of emotional reaction to art often, but it had been years. He’d become somewhat immune to the emotions art could evoke because he dealt in it every day. But this piece was different. This piece spoke to him. It literally hurt him, but that was probably because he could relate so well to it. He went to parties on a weekly basis and so often felt like the person in this photo...apart, alone, sad.

He wondered if Ryder would sell it to him. Did the artist have other pieces like it? A lot of the pieces touched on the theme of loneliness, but none of them were quite as powerful as this one.

He rubbed at his face. Or it could be that he was just really tired.

Mac’s engagement today had taken more of a toll on him than expected, although he knew beforehand that Mac had planned to ask Tommy. The two were perfect for one another and he was happy for them. But at one point in time, he’d thought he’d be the one with Mac, making their wedding plans. Not that Mac was the love of his life, but he’d been the closest Stig had ever come to wanting to settle down. Was he destined to spend his whole life alone?

He was already thirty-eight years old. Shouldn’t he have found The One by now?

He shook his head. Normally, he didn’t let himself dwell in thoughts like this. He’d usually go to Eclipse and purge them, but he had other responsibilities tonight.

His musings were way too deep for this late at night. He checked on Ryder one more time. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully right now. Did he dare leave him alone? How dangerous was it for someone with his mental disability to be left alone on nights like this when he seemed so confused about everything?

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave.